


Reflection of a Moon Eclips’d

by CastellanKurze (Kuja083), orphan_account, starcunning (Vannevar)



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: F/M, NSFW, Other, Pre-Heresy, Tarot XVI: The Tower, Transwoman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuja083/pseuds/CastellanKurze, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vannevar/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prospero is a world conducive to self-reflection, but what's a Son of Horus to do when the Body of Light and the body of flesh are in conflict?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflection of a Moon Eclips’d

**Author's Note:**

> Years from now, rather than repaint her armor and take up the mantle "Black Legionnaire," Drausus Aelius will call herself Aten.

> The fringed curtains of thine eye advance   
>  And say what thou seest yond.
> 
> _The Tempest,_ Shakespeare

When they added up the number of arrivals, Magnus learned that they had sent him a total of three hundred and fifty-one students. Ahzek had ribbed him about that. He had simply smiled.

It seemed a pitiful number when set against the multitudes that made up the ranks of the Legiones Astartes, but the journey of a thousand miles began with the first step, and the greatest edifice began with but a single shovel of dirt.

And anyway, as his Chief Librarian had pointed out quite astutely, it would be easier to start by training three hundred than three thousand. He had smiled at that as well.

There had been much preparation before the first ships had arrived. Quarters readied, grounds cleared, supplies stocked. Never before had such an august and eclectic delegation been anticipated in the history of the planet. Not even when the Emperor, beloved by all, had arrived. Certainly that had been a momentous occasion worthy of remembrance, but his visit had been perfunctory when compared to what lay before the world and its inhabitants now.

They had arrived, of course, in their groups, their little knots of comrades. Most of them had worn their armor, colors clashing wildly as they brushed shoulders or shook hands with their distant brethren from the far-flung corners of the Imperium.

Every Legion was represented.  This was a fact that had brought him much joy, and instilled in him a great confidence for what was yet to come.  In his heart of hearts he had worried that this brother or that might choose to withhold his men, but in the end each of them had at least sent a token representation.  Given time, given effort, these little seedlings would one day flourish as the first of a new breed, guided by the warriors of his own Legion.  And of course, himself.

When the last of the visitors had arrived he had gathered them at the center of Tizca, the City of Light, there to feast and take a day's respite from their journey, a moment to breathe before the plunge of training would begin.  His own acted as both honor guard and ambassador for their esteemed guests — a good number had served alongside other Legions in the early years of the Great Crusade, and they used this familiarity to ease the subtle tensions that were inevitably raised when men of such disparate origins came together.

Only when it came time to toast the meal did he come before them, clad not in the armor of a warlord but rather the garb of a statesman, his tunic belted at his waist and sandals upon his feet.  In the light of early evening his skin gleamed like polished copper, his hair a bright scarlet like blood.  Even without his wargear he was a giant, standing well above the heads of his legionnaires, the impossibly broad set of his shoulders and the undeniable strength in his frame disputing insistently with the distinctly non-martial choice of clothing.

His face was not so strong as that of Dorn or Russ, neither so fine as Fulgrim or Sanguinius.  Rather his features were artful, a noble set to them with his chin carried high, symmetrical but for the smooth patch of skin where his right eye should have been.  Of the remaining eye it might be said that each of those three hundred and fifty-one guests saw in it a different color, and each of them would have been correct.

"You have all been gathered here," he said, and his rich baritone voice flowed over every man present as if the great being stood directly at his shoulder, "because each of you share a gift.  But more than that," he went on, beginning to walk slowly down the central aisle between the tables that had been laid out for the feast, "each of you has shown the not only desire to master this gift, but the drive that will allow you to do so.  We welcome you to Prospero with open arms in the hopes that as we are willing to teach, so will you be willing to learn.  And when you depart this world, each of you—" and here, as he spoke he reached out to touch the men he passed upon their shoulder, "—whether you be White Scar, World Eater, Salamander or Luna Wolf, will carry on what you have learned here, and in turn bestow your knowledge upon your brethren."

He paused as he reached the golden disc that represented the sun in the center of the great chamber, lifting his arms with palms turned upwards as he turned slowly, catching as many of their gazes as he could.  "This charge will not be an easy one for you to bear, nor shall your training go quickly.  In many ways you will feel yourselves neophytes once more, taking the first steps upon a new and unfamiliar path.  But I am heartened," he went on, a smile touching his lips.  "For I look upon you all and I see no fear of this, but rather the bravery and dedication of the Legiones Astartes.  More," he paused, "in your eyes I see the suppleness of mind that will serve you well upon your chosen path.

"Tonight," he said, turning down his hands, "you shall feast, and I bid you feel welcome here in Tizca.  Tomorrow we shall stand together and face the true beginning of our undertaking — the creation of the Legiones Astartes Librarius."

Magnus the Red, Crimson King, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, pressed his palms together and bowed in welcome to them all.

 

 

Drausus Aelius had been afforded much opportunity on his passage to Prospero to reflect on the life he had abandoned. He was glad of the fratery of his gene-brothers, who drew him out of such maudlin sentiments, and he was glad at the feast to find himself a single figure in a small shoal of gleaming white.

These were faces he knew well: the crooked nose that Phaeston had earned before his initiation, the jagged scar that notched Terran-born Therus' cheek. Too, there were the Sons of Horus.

Aelius was one of these — though he was short, for a Space Marine, and slightly built, insomuch as such a thing could ever be said of an Astartes warrior — he honored his Master's face, but the eyes were his own, as was a slight softness to the cast of his mouth, like the figures on a bust he'd seen once in hololith. The eyes, though. Those were notable. Aelius hadn't been born with tawny eyes; but he had chosen them, and worn them ever since. The tattoo had come later, of course. He was envious of the molten gold in his host's own gaze. But he was here to learn. That was true enough.

And unlike Horus, Aelius had a full head of hair, his dark locks bound into a club at the nape of his neck.

Drausus Aelius watched Magnus the Red greet their gathered company, rapt and fascinated. He had never seen a thing of such beauty — save Horus himself, of course — and he wondered at it. There was a palpable aura of power about the place, too, which intoxicated him. It was like an electric charge, and Aelius was at once uncertain of whether he might bear it as Magnus' gilt fingers closed around Therus' shoulderguard.

He stood then on the disc of the sun and bowed in welcome, and Drausus Aelius supplicated himself in turn, a fist clashing against his chestplate as he made polite obeisance.

There were similar smatterings of applause from the quarters of the room, and graciously Magnus nodded his head in acknowledgement of the praise.  And then, as abruptly as he had come before them the Primarch was gone, leaving the Astartes to their feast and their anticipations.

As the Crimson King had promised, the next day saw their training begin.  The Thousand Sons themselves proved to be the handlers of this delicate task rather than entrusting it to any mortal teacher.  The first lesson was the mental barrier to shield oneself from the outside influence, be it from the Warp — the 'Great Ocean,' as the Thousand Sons called it — or from another.  For many days the trainees lingered on this lesson.  Many of them had experimented with their psychic gifts in the past, but the Thousand Sons were tenacious in its application, drilling their charges in the calmness of mind and steadiness of spirit that would lead to focus.  Before long it became apparent that this would be a sticking point — a few trainees thought to match their teachers through force of will, but when they found their efforts blunted or turned aside by the sorcerous powers of the sons of Prospero, it became clear that those who did not master the art of the mental barrier would proceed no further in their education.

Only once the Thousand Sons were satisfied with the defenses their charges had learned did they begin to open the doors into more expansive learnings.  The lesson of the Enumerations followed next, the Thousand Sons teaching their charges to lift their consciousness into a higher state and thus freeing themselves of such distractions as physical pain, distraction, even emotion.

If the first lesson had been  _focus_ , then the second was  _clarity_.

Once more the Thousand Sons badgered their trainees in a manner depressingly similar to the drill instructors of years past, teaching them to act and react instinctively, often unexpectedly, testing their mental faculties over and over again.  Once more, many days pass while the legion of sorcerers stubbornly refused to advance their trainees' lessons.

In all this time Magnus proves to be a rare sight. From time to time he might be seen amongst his Legion, or noting this or that advancement of a particular trainee, but most often he was absent. When one of them — a Night Lord — impatiently demanded why he remove himself from a process he himself had pushed the Legions to undertake, the Crimson King merely smiled and noted that he would join the training process when it was appropriate, and not before.

"Your Primarch did not teach you to use a boltgun," he said, addressing the lot of them rather than the lone figure, "nor did you learn the use of a chainsword from him. When the day comes that you are gone from here and you are faced with your own students, you will tell them truthfully that what you have learned was taught to you by your brothers, rather than bestowed upon you directly by a son of the Emperor.

"Besides," he noted with a smile. "As I am often reminded by my chief librarian," and here he glanced at the armored figure of Ahzek Ahriman, "I cannot devote equal time to three hundred and fifty-one of you, as deserving as you all may be of my attentions."

Aelius throws himself into his studies with gusto — or like a fish to the shoals of a grand sea after a lifetime of small ponds — and, while his studies go well, the bonds he forges outside of his Legion are fewer and further between. He learns gladly at the feet of Brother Hastar, and the two seem to enjoy no small rapport, but beyond such niceties as he shares with a handful of Pavonae, Aelius forges no real bonds.

It may be fairly said that Drausus Aelius is an exceptional student, and indeed an exceptional psyker … but "exceptional" is no more than the baseline among Space Marines, and Aelius is by no means a rising star. His development comes not from some wellspring of personal potential, but from a careful mapping of his own boundaries.

With the foundations laid, the process begins to move more into the meat of the training and here, the Thousand Sons and their charges begin to tease out their specialization in the various schools of psychic abilities.  A confused psychic babble erupts as the first rudimentary steps of telepathy are taken, while the telekines suddenly turn a good portion of the training grounds into a veritable war zone of flying objects.  Practice bouts erupt as the students of the Corvidae school begin learning how to sneak glances into the immediate future, and this has the unfortunate effect of killing off the various games of chance sometimes played amongst the trainees in their down time.

It is around this time that Magnus the Red begins to take a more hands-on approach with the trainees, appearing to speak to this one or that.  Rather than teaching directly, the Primarch of the XV Legion acts more as a councillor than trainer: gently advising a headstrong trainee or subtly altering the methods of a struggling student, reinforcing the lessons imparted by his sons and offering more individualized guidance.

One of the most serious lessons, however, is the one known amongst the Thousand Sons as 'the body of light' — the astral projection of a psyker's mental self into the Empyrean.  Such lessons are kept very short, but even so it is not long before the trainees begin learning how to bend and twist their envisioned selves; and sometimes it even happens without intention, something discovered when Mkanti Kano of the Blood Angels appears to a group of his fellows as a winged apparition in the vein of his own Primarch.

The Body of Light is a dangerous thing for Drausus Aelius, as his own bears little resemblance to his body of flesh in the first instant of its manifestation. He is not sure, at first, what this might signify, but rather works to bring its appearance in line with the expectations one might have of him — though he allows his Empyrean form the luxury of a blazing corona of light to supplant the restrained black locks of his reality.

Surely he was wrong about what he had manifested that first time. And the Pavoni were teaching him mastery of his body. It simply stood to reason that mastery would not end in the physical world. It would be better, then, to present his body of light as a solar disc.

Only to be outshone by Magnus the Red, of course, who blazes like the fires of creation within the opalescent swell of the Great Ocean, drawing the Librarius to him like a star collects satellites. Again there's that rush of electricity at the sight, and the bitter tang of long-swallowed envy.

It is some days past the first attempts of the trainees to come to grips with these psychic projections when a visitor comes to the door of Drausus Aelius.

The air is quiet in late evening, the simmering sun of Prospero well below the horizon with only the last hint of light fading from the sky.  Many of the trainees have retired for the night, some of the struggling few actually going so far as to fall into true slumber after the exertions of the day.

The Librarius' studies are hard, but they are not grueling, and with what free time Aelius comes to have — he's demonstrated an exceptional capacity for sleeplessness, even for an Astartes — he takes to making paintings of Tizca. He's a fair hand at it, too; perhaps a more natural talent is to hand in his paintings than his spellwork, but either hand holds the tools of his artifice with precision.

Drausus Aelius is painting his view of the silver city: not for the first time, and likely not for the last. The air is redolent with the smell of turpentine, and the psyker hums softly to himself as he works, palette knife scraping against the canvas in rhythmic fashion as he limns the edges of Tizca's glass pyramid, radiant with the last rays of Prospero's dying sun.

The tap at the door is surprisingly delicate for a being of such size and strength but it draws the painter from his reverie. Aelius is stripped to the waist, his fingers and face smudged here and there with muddy colors, and he bows his head as tawny eyes meet the cyclops' gaze. Magnus nods his head in a gesture reminiscent of the one made at the feast of welcoming.

"Good evening, Drausus Aelius," he says, and his voice is made smooth by the restraint in its volume.  
"My Lord," he says, somewhat deferentially. "To what do I owe the unalloyed pleasure?"  
"I merely wished to speak with you," the red-skinned Primarch replies, his brow arching slightly as he takes note of the colors smudged upon the astartes' skin.  "Have I chosen an inopportune moment?" he asks, his lips quirked slightly as if in bemusement.

"No," Aelius says hastily, snatching up a cloth tucked at his waist and cleaning his hands. "No, not at all. Please come in," he adds a moment later, stepping back from the doorway.

That understated smile remains on the Primarch's lips as he nods, ducking his head slightly to enter the room.  "Thank you.  Ah," he says abruptly as he catches sight of the canvas.  "I had wondered, at the scent of paints."  The red-skinned giant steps forth to study the artwork, reaching one hand out halfway towards the unfinished design and sliding his fingers downwards as if to trace the shape of the great pyramid.  "The way the sunlight falls against the panels there, you've quite captured it," he says softly, and his appreciation for the work is evident in his voice.  "We built it to do just that.  To stand as a beacon of illumination."

The Primarch’s single eye falls upon other works then, stacked against walls: different parts of the city, mostly, but there are also a multitude of ink-washed sketches of the Astartes in study or at their ease, brothers and equals engaging in various pastimes.

"Thank you," Aelius says gravely, turning away for a moment to spray down his palette and cover it, frowning in thought at the drying canvas. "That one is finished, I think," he says, as much to himself as to the Primarch who looks on beside him. "If I continue, I will only overwork it."

"I must agree," Magnus says, lowering his hand once more.  "You are quite talented, Aelius," he says as he turns his gaze upon the body of the marine's work. Aelius smiles slightly, a crooked little thing that looks out of place on his grave features. "When did you begin painting?"  
"Not long after the Emperor came to Chthonia," he admits. "It began as a pastime for long ship voyages. My hands do not do well in their idleness," he remarks, looking down at his grimy fingernails.  
"'Idle hands are the devil's workshop,'" the Primarch quotes with a wry smile.  "A pre-Imperial saying, perhaps trite in its superstitions—but in my experience uncannily accurate.  It is well that you found such a pastime to occupy yourself.  Though the Legiones Astartes be bred for war, it is my view that that should never be the only application of their talents.  
"Tell me, Aelius," he says, pausing as he studies one of the sketches of the budding librarian's fellow Astartes, "what is your preferred subject for your artistry?"  
"Landscapes," he admits. "It may have something to do with being shipbound, as well. The blast shields mean, of course, that there are no views to be had through my windows. So I have made them," he elaborates with a sweeping gesture of his hand.  
"Ah," Magnus notes, that mysterious smile appearing on his features once more.  "One might seize upon such a predilection and cast the artist as a soul entrapped, yearning to live free.  Is that how you see yourself, Aelius?"  There is a lilt in the Primarch's voice that might be a note of teasing, or it might simply be curiosity, with Magnus it is difficult to tell.  
The Luna Wolf laughs, a dry, brittle thing: "I doubt if I would be alone in that mindset. What else would have drawn all of us to Prospero?" he replies. "I had thought that was exactly the purpose of the Librarius."  
"A good answer," the Primarch replies, his smile growing slightly.  "Some psykers see their powers as an extension of themselves, the way others might view a bolter or chainsword…or a paintbrush," he adds wryly.  "Others speak of them as a part of them, as akin to a hand, a finger, a sense of smell or touch.  Do you know how the most successful practitioners of the psychic disciplines see their gifts, Aelius?" he questions.  
"Not yet," the psyker admits, looking over at the XV Primarch, the glint of curiosity shining in those tawny eyes. His wadjet tattoo distends slightly as Aelius narrows his eyes almost critically. "Certainly I might hazard a guess, but I have come to learn, and will listen."  
"They understand that they are integral to the formation of their true selves," Magnus replies, his voice serious as to be nearly leaden.  "As vital to one's life as one's heart.  The greatest psykers understand themselves in ways that few mortal men can hope to match, every facet of their true selves laid bare before them, no single secret left unturned.  They know themselves perfectly, and in this comprehension the body of flesh and the body of light are in perfect synchronization.  Those who cannot do this," he says gently as he turns to face the Luna Wolf, spearing him with the intensity of that lone eye, "can never hope to achieve such mastery."

"Why have you come here?" Aelius demands, without rancor — indeed, even without force behind his voice. He sounds almost afraid, shy of the answer the Crimson King might offer. Still, he is Astartes; he does not tremble, and neither does he look away from the intensity of Magnus' single eye, watching color seethe around the ring of his iris.

"I came with the hopes that I might lend you aid, Aelius," Magnus says, reaching out one large hand to touch the Astartes' shoulder in distant mimicry of his gestures that first night.  "As you so rightly noted, that is why I called all of you to Prospero.  You all came here with the dream of mastering that portion of yourselves that had previously lain hidden and shadowed from you.  I would have you — each of you — bring that forward into the light."  
"And why do you now believe I am in need of your guidance?" he asks in that same timorous tone. "I had thought I was progressing well," he says then, looking away at last to regard his backlog of paintings without expression.  
"You have been," Magnus agrees with a slight nod.  "And I would like nothing more than for that to continue."  The Primarch lowers his hand from Aelius' shoulder and gestures to the room's empty portion.  "Come, sit with me a moment, Aelius," he says.  "And let us speak of the body of light."  
"Of course," Aelius agrees after a moment's hesitation, wiping his palette knife clean and leaving his tools in perfect readiness before he abandons them, crossing the small antechamber to one of the chairs arrayed opposite the window. He nods to its twin, but dares not seat himself yet, regarding Magnus with that same awed fear.

The Primarch of the Thousand Sons seats himself with delicacy, waving Aelius to follow suit. He does, folding his hands in his lap and trying not to think too much about his dishabille.  
"Mutants," Magnus says, seemingly apropos of nothing.  "Every single human being is one.  A subtle mutation of the DNA that makes up the very core of our being.  Sometimes arranged by chance, sometimes deliberately engineered."  
At the Primarch's sudden proclamation, his brow furrows, and he wonders for a moment how this might have anything to do with the Body of Light. He decides, after a moment, to simply follow the master psyker's lead.

Magnus smiles briefly.  "Most often the word is used to denote particular individuals whose genetic makeup is sufficiently removed from the norm to be instinctively denoted as different.  Navigators, for example.  But in the truest sense of the word, not a human being lives — not even the most cautiously developed replicae — that is not in some way a mutation." The Crimson King pauses.  "Why is this a good thing for our species, Drausus Aelius?" he asks directly, his lone eye fixed upon the Luna Wolf.  
Aelius hums in thought, seeming to linger over the question a long time before he forms a reply: "It is, perhaps, the only way to progress. If a trait arises that benefits its carrier in some way, it then has a better chance of being passed on to the next generation. Thus, we advance ourselves by micrometers."

"A perfectly valid answer, and one that any geneticist or student of the body physik would readily agree with," the red-skinned giant replies with a nod.  "However it dovetails into a second, oft-overlooked result.  Catachan, Valhalla, Barbarus," he recites.  "I have just named three worlds known throughout the Imperium as bloody, harsh, and unforgiving.  And yet humanity thrives upon all three of them.  It is our capacity for variation — for mutation — that permits us to do so.  
"The Primarchs, and the Legiones Astartes that bear their likenesses are in much the same vein," he continues.  "Why would the Emperor, beloved by all, create one Lorgar Aurelian, one Fulgrim, one Horus Lupercal, when he could instead have created twenty Sanguiniuses, twenty Rogal Dorns, or twenty Magnuses?"  He smiles briefly.  "Though I must admit I rather like the sound of that last, myself, the Emperor understood that humanity's greatest strength is its capacity for variation, those differences between individuals sometimes small and sometimes gross that grant us our greatest strength as a species.”  
Drausus Aelius makes for a rapt student, his tawny eyes bright with interest and understanding, and he nods without meaning to as the Primarch pontificates, strands of his dark hair working loose from the queue at the nape of his neck.  
"I am certain by now that you are wondering what this all has to do with the body of light," Magnus says with a smile.  
"I am doing that," he agrees shrewdly, lips pursed for a moment as he ruminates, and a measure of the color drains from his face.  
"Consider for a moment all that I have just said, and reflect — what is the difference between the body of flesh and the body of light?"

"In the Great Ocean," Drausus Aelius murmurs after a moment, something almost defensive in his tone, "we can adapt ourselves with readiness, at our own will and not by accident of birth or environ."  
"Once more a perfectly valid answer," Magnus replies with an approving nod.  "The body of light is a projection of ourselves formed totally by thought and will, unhindered by limitations of flesh, bone, or even one so stringent as our very genes.  It is a picture of each of us not only as we wish to be seen, but when unfettered shows us the most true essence of how we view ourselves."

The Primarch of the Thousand Sons pauses for a long moment.  "And sometimes, that picture is very different from our appearance in the physical realm."  
"And so you mean to imply …" Aelius begins, his mouth dry. He breaks off to swallow, and avoids the cyclops' gaze. "What is it that you think you saw?"  
The red giant momentarily presses his lips together in a thin line as the Astartes warrior looks away from him.  "I think that I have seen a Luna Wolf whose self-image is markedly different from the flesh in which…" once more Magnus pauses, as if to emphasize the delicacy of his chosen terminology, "… _her_  consciousness is seated."  
Aelius closes his eyes and wills himself through a series of deep, cleansing breaths. He rises through the Enumerations, not without difficulty, and sits a long moment centering himself before he forms any sort of reply.

"Do not expect to see such a thing again," he cautions softly.

"And why is that, Aelius?" Magnus asks, his voice equally soft.  "No, that is not a rhetorical question.  I want to hear your reasoning.  Take your time, if need be," he says with a brief lift of one hand.  "I know that this is not so simple a question as those previous."  
Those tawny eyes open again and fix upon the Crimson King's own, a shade or two duller perhaps. Drausus Aelius huffs out a sigh, nostrils flaring as he does. After a long span of silence hangs between them, he finally opens his mouth to speak. "There is no place for a sister among the phratry of the Legiones Astartes," he begins.

Another long silence follows the statement.  "And so," Magnus says softly, "you feel compelled to cloak even the body of light in guise and falsehood."  His gaze is steady upon the Astartes warrior.  "This is hardly a thing unknown amongst my own Legion — the Thousand Sons are quite fond of their self-made myths and creative deceptions — but I am compelled to question, Aelius.  Is this a thing done because you feel that your inclusion amongst the Legiones Astartes was somehow a mistake?"  
"Not enough to resign," Aelius admits with that same crooked smile. "Were resignation even an option," he adds a moment later. "If I had been born a woman instead, however, I would never have become one of the Sons of Horus," he remarks without inflection.

Magnus smiles lightly.  "And so you wage a silent war.  On the one hand, your pride as a Luna Wolf, and all that goes with it.  On the other, your identity and the knowledge, however internalized, that in your case the body of light and the body of flesh do not match up quite as well as you would wish."  
"And what, then, would you advise?" the psyker challenges, though there's no reproach in it. "Am I to assume it is not the course I presently follow?" Aelius continues, lifting a hand to brush those coal-black strands of hair back from his face.  
"Well," the Primarch says, shifting slightly and reaching towards a slim pouch that hangs from his belt.  "If you might permit me a momentary indulgence."

Magnus opens the pouch with a snap of metal and draws from it a stacked deck of cards, larger than any playing cards the Astartes or their mortal comrades might use to pass the time, and decorated with ornate, hand-drawn motifs.

"The tarot is a very old superstition," Magnus says as he begins to shuffle the cards with surprising dexterity.  "Pre-Imperial, of course, though that is childish understatement, for the history of the tarot stretches back as far as we can remember, perhaps even as far back as recorded history itself.  How they work depends, of course, on whom you ask.  Some believed that the mystical nature of the cards permitted them to tap into the power of the aether, revealing hidden truths to those with the understanding to use them properly.  Most, however, claimed they were a focus of the unconscious or psychic mind, and that in the hands of one gifted with the sight they could be used as a tool to read the future, be it in general or for the benefit of some paying customer."

The Primarch smiles crookedly.  "But most agreed that they were little more than a tool of con artists, hustlers, and perhaps the occasional deluded romantic," he says.

"And what, then, do you believe?" Aelius asks, looking at the faded backs of the oversized cards with some interest. He's seen the Tarot before, of course; Ahzek Ahriman among others is fond of using it in the Corvidae's exercises — though not, Aelius would admit, in the way he initially expected. The psyker shifts in his chair, then, picking it up carefully and turning more fully toward Magnus as those immense hands make such careful movements. His body language when he sits is more open: legs uncrossed, hands resting upon his knees rather than arms clamped across his chest. Those eyes are once more the color of an aged amontillado or an ancient feline predator.  
"In the proper hands," the Primarch says, his tone leaving little doubt as to what he means by that, "they can sometimes be used as a tool by the psychically active, if a rather blunt one."  With a quick movement of his thumb Magnus slides several cards from the top of the deck into his empty hand, lifting them up to show Aelius their backs with the elaborate mandala designs worked upon them.  Then he lowers his hand, leaving the quintet of cards hovering in the air between the two of them.  
"Pick one and only one," Magnus says as he sits back in his chair once more so that he can watch the Astartes rather than the tarot cards, keeping them aloft with a mere fraction of his will.  
Aelius nods, then, and shifts toward the edge of his chair. The very air seems to vibrate against his skin, and he might almost swear he hears the music of the spheres as Magnus the Red suspends the cards between them. Those eyes close once more, those full lips part, and Drausus Aelius lifts a hand, letting something of his intuition guide his hand. Fingers greying with turpentine waft through the air until, very deliberately, he snatches a card from the space between them.  
"Look upon it," Magnus says.

On the face of the card is a vivid depiction of a great stone edifice, rising from the ground like some manner of monolith and ascending through a halo of clouds whereupon it is ringed by jagged, chaotic streaks of golden lightning.  At the bottom of the card is handwritten low gothic, recognizable despite the archaic flourishes to the letters — THE TOWER.

Aelius frowns to see it, his gaze fixed upon the figures which tumble headfirst from the stone edifice. Something icy grips his heart, and he lets it tumble from his fingers as if scalded by the paper.

The card does not fall far, swooping upwards and spinning to return to its place amongst the others that still hover in the air, turned so that Aelius may yet look upon it. Aelius looks anywhere but at the card he's drawn, focusing instead upon the mandalas printed on the backs of the other cards, lifting his gaze to regard the Crimson King. His lips are parted just slightly in a gape of surprise.  
"The Tower is a card with a great deal of meaning behind it," Magnus says, his face deadly serious.  "It supposedly depicts the mythical Tower of Babel, which primitive humanity supposedly sought to raise in an effort to connect the earth to the heaven they believed existed above the clouds.  As punishment for their arrogance, their deity stuck down the effort by cursing them to speak in many tongues, rather than the single language which had been previously known to them.  As a result humanity was fractured as the many tribes separated, each clinging to those few with him they could yet communicate.  
"At its heart," the Primarch continues, "the card is meant to signify the paradigms of the mind, and how they sometimes fail when matched against reality.  False ideas, pretense, the sign to stop and re-examine oneself, or perhaps an impending epiphany.  In some circles," he adds, "it represents dualism, and sometimes the breaking and renewal of fractured consciousness."  
Still there is something pale and trembling about Drausus Aelius as he turns his gaze toward Magnus, opening his mouth as if to speak. He swallows, then, and finds his voice: "What advice, then, would you offer?" he asks, something still disbelieving in him.  
"To start, a very small piece of advice," Magnus says, his face warming once more with a smile.  "Aelius.  I know how difficult it can be to think yourself entirely alone, waging some silent war for which you feel you can neither confide in your brothers nor ask for their help.  I know how it feels to think yourself cut adrift, without a safe haven from a storm.  I know the weariness of looking to the future and seeing no easy end in sight for the troubles that plague your spirit.  
"My advice to you, Aelius, is to remember through all the battles you may fight with yourself: no matter how alone in the universe, no matter how conflicted you may feel yourself…"  The Primarch slowly reaches out one hand, index finger extended to touch the upper edge of one floating card, pressing downwards to slowly flip it about…

…and there reveals in all its impassive glory a stone edifice identical to the card beside it, stubbornly declaring 'THE TOWER.'

Aelius’ features — so very like his gene father's — harden into a stormy mien that well-suits the painted illustration. As Magnus expounds on the point, Aelius swallows his bile at having been tricked.

"Everyone we meet, no matter how sure of themselves, no matter how resolute or confidant they feel," Magnus continues, reaching out to slowly turn the remaining cards one by one and reveal in turn three more of the lightning-wreathed towers, "is fighting some internal battle." Magnus lowers his hand as the five identical cards face the Astartes warrior.

"That makes it no easier," Aelius admits, "to inflict my burdens on another, not least given their nature. This … struggle of mine will divorce me from my brothers."  
Magnus lifts his hand and uses a finger to gently push the leftmost card over into the next, and from there on to gather up the quintet before he plucks them from the air and returns them to the deck.  "A curious choice of words," he says softly.  "'To inflict.'" The Primarch returns his tarot cards to their pouch, snapping it closed once more.  "How confident are you in that assessment?"  
"I am not well-loved," Aelius admits, "among my brothers. Not least for a Son of Horus. What would you think, were you one of my brothers, and saw the Body of Light I manifested that day?" Aelius challenges, again lifting a hand, to brush back his dark locks of hair.  
"The more pertinent question, Aelius, is what do you think of it?  Forget your brothers for a moment," he says, making a motion with one hand as if to brush them aside.  "For you they have becoming a symbol of your struggle.  Forget the Luna Wolves, for but a moment, and speak to me as Drausus Aelius of Chthonia.  How would your body of light please you, if you knew that nobody was watching?"  
"I am afraid of it," he admits, in a breathless voice that none but Astartes might hope to hear. "If I have been wrong about something so fundamental for all this time, then I have built my ivory tower on unsteady ground." He pales to say so, and looks down at his hands then as if not quite sure what to do with them.  
"Aelius, look at me," Magnus says gently, leaning forwards in his seat and reaching out so that he can easily clasp the Astartes' hands between his own large pair. Drausus Aelius' hands are cold, though they do not shake. He is still Astartes, he reminds himself, no matter what this flaw that has presented itself might portend. The Crimson King’s hands are warm, uncalloused despite his many years of work thanks to the Primarch's incredible physiology.  
It still takes him a long time to meet the Primarch's gaze. "Yes, Lord?" he prompts, feeling the Crimson King's warmth suffuse him.  
Magnus' face is once more sober, though not quite stern as he meets Aelius' gaze.  "I did not come here tonight to offer you rebuke, nor do I do so now," the Primarch says, "so be at ease."  He pauses for a moment to let that sink in. The reminder does set Aelius at ease somewhat, and the Luna Wolf nods once, gravely, relaxing back in his chair.

"When I spoke to the gathering your first night here, I said that you would be much as neophytes once more, and I did not speak hyperbolically.  Many of you are reaching a period in your lives that demands a fundamental rebuilding of yourselves.  Happily, you are yet on Prospero, and this is a world well suited to reflection and self examination."  
"And I could ask for no finer mentors than I have found in Tizca," Aelius admits.

That twinge of a smile appears once more upon Magnus' lips.  "Walk with me, Aelius," he says, "for the time has come to move this lesson beyond these walls."

Despite his entreaty the Primarch makes no move to rise from his seat, and the way his hands tighten marginally around Aelius' own makes it clear that his definition of 'walk' is far removed from the mundane sense.

Aelius’ grasp on the Enumerations has been shaken, and it takes the Librarian some time to rise through them again, his breathing becoming more even. Even as Magnus' hands tighten, Aelius' slacken, then twitch slightly, as if in effort of grasping at something.

He emerges a moment later into the Great Ocean, a radiant coin of light that hangs like a harvest moon in the effervescence. There is little to identify the Marine in this "body" — evidently he's been honing the manifestation of this form so as not to appear otherwise before his brothers. The budding librarian is drawn as if by unseen power, though if Drausus Aelius were to attempt to discern in which direction, it would be impossible to name.

Not quite so far, a voice murmurs softly. The room takes shape around the Astartes' consciousness, swimming just slightly out of focus as if in some dreamlike state.  As Magnus pulls his consciousness back toward his fleshly body, Drausus Aelius is suddenly struck with memories of some of the old mines on Chthonia, still being worked only below the water table. He remembers then the stories of divers who surfaced too quickly and took ill — and seems to forget at the same time those tales of men who dived too deep and destroyed their lungs.

The room is lined by shadows, contrasting sharply with the bright crimson light thrown out by the place's sole source of illumination.

Magnus stands much in the same place he had been seated moments ago, his body aglow with bright red light that seems to originate deep within him.  The Primarch's chosen form is much akin to that of his flesh, though his great mane of hair is unbound and his clothes have shifted to a different cut that would not have been out of place amongst the statesmen of the ancient Greco-Romanii or Gyptus.  Though he yet foregoes his armor, a khopesh is belted at his waist; a clear signifier of martial bent.

As the Luna Wolf's consciousness draws near to his own Magnus stretches out a hand as if to catch the glowing 'coin' in one large palm, but he does not bring Aelius' astral body quite so close, letting the representation hover just beyond his fingers.

His own light is as a candle before an oilfield, the room filled wholly with that crimson presence even though Aelius' sun-disk is too large for even one such as Magnus the Red to hold with both hands. He takes in the sight of the Primarch with approval, though there's no way for Aelius to signify that outwardly.

"No diving into the depths of the Great Ocean tonight," Magnus says, the light shifting and bending in subtle ways as his lips move.  "Tonight we merely tread the shallows."

"As you say," he replies, and in the physical realm his hands slacken just slightly as Aelius once more takes his ease.  
"Come.  Follow," Magnus says, and with that the Primarch turns to depart, walking through the door as if it were no more obstacle than a light upon a mist. The librarian seems to balk, at first, at the notion of walking through walls, but after a moment to steel himself he emerges into the hallway. "Dreamwalking is a subtle art, Aelius," Magnus says as they move beyond into the hallway, the length of it filled with sharp-edged shadows that shift as the Primarch moves. Aelius hangs over Magnus’ shoulder, backlighting him and adding to the strangeness of the shadows that stretch before them.  "What you and I do tonight will be of a similar nature.  Whilst normally I would not demand such finesse of a neophyte," he smiles slightly, "I have practiced it a great deal, and can maintain our joint presence.  I say this not to aggrandize myself," he notes, lifting one hand slightly, "but to warn you not to attempt such delicacy on your own, at least not yet.  Once you have proceeded further in your instructions you may receive the opportunity to hone your own skill."  
"May I ask where we're going?" he says then, though he doesn't really expect an answer.  
"As I said," the Primarch says, a glint of mischief in his eye.  "For a walk."  
Aelius finds it in him to laugh, the sound almost musical in the thickness of the veil. It's a rare enough thing, and he feels better for having done it.

The Primarch walks the halls of the quarters as might any mortal man, simply fading through the doors where they might present an obstacle.  Despite the immensity of the man's presence it seems the pair of them pass unheeded by any, even when they finally emerge into the open night of Tizca. Aelius, though, seems almost nervous as the pair proceed, as if waiting for an ambush that never comes.

From there, the Crimson King simply continues on his way, one hand resting idly at his belt as he makes for the skyline of the greater city, leaving the training grounds that have become familiar to the guests. As they pass into the streets of the city, Aelius draws abreast of his … mentor? companion?

"Have you taken the opportunity to acquaint yourself with the city beyond your quarters, Aelius?" the Primarch finally questions, long minutes after their last exchange.  
"I have," he admits. "There is a sculpture garden in the park west of here I am fond of, and I have of course seen the Street of Lions."  
"It pleases me to hear that," Magnus replies.  "The sons and daughters of Prospero have made Tizca into a city of which I am very proud.  Would that more of your fellows saw fit to appreciate her greater beauty.  Much like your fondness for artistry, Astartes may be built and bred for war but war should not be all they are," the Primarch says definitively.

"I'm told your Chief Librarian is an accomplished vintner," Aelius says conversationally. "To my knowledge, the Luna Wolves boast none such. Mayhap among the Emperor's Children," the Astartes muses as he bobs along behind the Crimson King, the edges of his spherical projection brushing against a boxwood hedge as they pass.

Their course takes them ambling this way and that in the vague direction of the statue park Aelius had mentioned.  Abruptly however, at one crossing he stops short.  "Ah," he says aloud.  "There is someone else about at this hour."

Coming down the crossroads towards the pair is a strange sight indeed.  It is humanoid in the strictest sense, a grey figure nearly as tall as the Primarch himself but a fraction of the presence.  Its limbs are spindly well past the point of emaciation, ending in sharpened tips where hands and feet should be.  It moves slowly, almost shuffling along with a hunched posture.  Its face, if one can call it that, is moulded vaguely into human features, without discernible eyes or mouth beyond the merest suggestion of such things.

Magnus seems to watch its approach calmly, and indeed the figure takes no notice of them at all as it crosses their path, one slow, tired step at a time.

If Aelius breathed in this realm, he would be holding his breath until the thing passed. It is a long time after it shuffles away that Aelius dares speak again: "What was that?" he wonders.

Magnus turns his head so that his eye fixes Aelius' consciousness upon his gaze for what seems a long moment.  "Can you not guess?" the Primarch asks aloud, but he holds up a hand to forestall reply and simply gestures for the pair of them to continue.  What follows as the pair meander through Tizca's streets is some manner of cavalcade of horrors, or perhaps the images seen in a fever dream.

The next figure to cross their path is more discernibly human, dressed fashionably with tanned skin and dark hair just long enough to be artfully mussed.  The being's mouth, however, is more suited to a shark than that of a man, his eyes black but for the vaguest hint of gold at the iris.  From his fingertips sprout jagged, savage claws.

A distinctly feminine figure is next to pass by, her body a picture of beauty…exaggerated well beyond the point of parody — massive breasts above a waist mere inches across, flaring hips with thighs more thick than those of a space marine.

On the other side of the street a rotund creature nearly spherical in its dimensions waddles slowly in the other direction, its face such a mass of folds that eyes and mouth are barely discernible amongst them.

Three-headed beings, beings with features and bodies wildly out of proportion, animalistic beings, beings made of iron or glass, mutations and grotesques and mockeries of humanity far beyond any mutation Drausus Aelius has seen in his life — the Luna Wolf has seen Xenos more human than many of these.

He bides in a silence which grows tenser as each of the exhibits in this twisted wunderkammer passes by. He drinks them all in, committing them to eidetic memory so that later, mayhap, he can paint them. Or, a part of him thinks, have nightmares about them — but he sleeps rarely enough that he dismisses the concern after a moment's thought.

Blessedly, the statue park is empty, an island of sanctuary amidst a world of insanity.  Here, the odd beings with their avian and feline heads carved in likenesses out of Gyptus mythology seem positively mundane, while the abstract art, if nothing else, doesn't attempt to walk away. Aelius moves more easily here, circling around a jackal-headed figure for a long few moments — a personal favorite, it would seem.

"I doubt but that this is your first visit here," Aelius speculates evenly.  
"I have walked these streets many times," Magnus says with a nod.  He joins Aelius, facing the jackal-headed man for a moment before looking to the Astartes.  "It has often been said that man is his own worst enemy," the Primarch says, watching Aelius closely as if expectant.  
"I doubt very much that those we saw in our travels tonight bear much resemblance between their bodies of flesh and their bodies of light," Aelius rejoins after a moment, lingering close to the Primarch, though his attention has turned skyward for a moment.  
"In most ways," the Primarch agrees.  "As I said, what we do here is a variation on the art is commonly referred to as dreamwalking.  What you see, Aelius, is the body of light — unhindered by rational thought, unshaped by will."  The Primarch nods his head towards the arched entrance to the park.  "What you see out there, is what humanity would look like if our own subconscious, our self-perception were made reality."  
"But not yours," Aelius says, not quite able to keep all of the challenge from his tone. "And neither does mine look like that," he adds a moment later, more quietly, as if afraid to elaborate.  
"And can you guess why?" Magnus challenges in return, his gaze even.  
"Because you are no more willing to relinquish your grasp on this body than I am," Aelius says.

"No," Magnus replies, smiling slightly.  "The only person that is exempt from the scrying I have woven about us is you, Aelius."  The Primarch stretches out his hand, as if to display the shape and definition of the glowing limb.  "This is myself, as I see myself at the deepest level," he says.  "No armor, for I am not first a warrior but a seeker of knowledge.  Only the sword, for I would defend those that would seek to destroy my people, to bring down the glory of humanity and the Imperium.

“You see me thus, Aelius," Magnus says, "because I have come to know myself.  Even with this," he says, lifting his hand to indicate the missing eye.  "The supposed flaw that puts the lie to my engineered perfection."  
The Primarch lowers his hand.  "Let go of your boundaries, Drausus Aelius, and show yourself as you truly are.  You have my word that none shall see you, as none have seen you since our walk began.  Know yourself, Aelius, and you shall grow as I have grown."  
He cannot nod, so Aelius simply bobs, that sun-disk hanging in the air a long moment. It seems then almost to transform, taking on the malleable quality of all things in dreams, elongating slightly like an egg, and after a long few moments, a figure emerges, uncurling from its cramped position.

Drausus Aelius is no less radiant in this form, having taken Body of Light somewhat to heart, it would seem, but the figure that rises before Magnus the Red is no bulky Astartes warrior — but something more, yet, than that. She, for it is certainly a feminine figure, is dwarfed by the Primarch, and her shoulders are still broad, her limbs still thick with corded muscle, but her waist is slimmer, and the mass of a bioengineered muscular chest is softened by a generous bustline. Her hips are wider yet than her shoulders. The glow ebbs from her skin in even measure, leaving Aelius standing before the Primarch as if hewn from marble — and draped in linen as are the sculpted figures around them, as though to protect her modesty. Aelius' face has changed, slightly, the squareness of his jaw replaced with a more tapered chin. She still looks very much like her gene-father in the structure of her face; the line of her nose and the shape of her eyes, but the lips are softer still than they had been, and her tawny eyes fairly blaze like flame. Her dark hair is unbound, arrayed behind her like a mane. She lifts her hands from her sides, palms turned outward in a gesture of presentation.

Magnus offers the feminine figure a nod, perhaps of approval.  "Astartes tend towards extremes, where the subconscious is concerned," he says as he turns slightly and moves to seat himself at the edge of the statue's pedestal. Aelius, for her part, seems content to remain standing, and as Magnus sits down, she no longer has to look up at him. She makes to fold her arms across her chest, but must adjust after a moment to compensate for the new structure of her torso, glancing down as if in disbelief. "Many of them, sober, serious, inclined to self-reflection have very accurate portrayals of themselves, and indeed if you could set the body of light beside the body of flesh, even in the case of one with no psychic talent at all, you would be hard-pressed to tell the difference."  
"Others," he says, and here he frowns briefly, "are, to use a loaded term, blasphemous in their self-exaggeration and imaginings of themselves and their fellow man.  Many of them would appear hardly recognizable as human, seeming instead abstract and monstrous creatures."  
"And you, then, are in that former camp?" she speculates. "This body is not so unlike the one that sits now in my domicile," she points out.  
"I am," he replies with a nod.  "Though in fairness, the Primarchs as a whole tend towards normalization.  Yes," he continues with a slight smile, "even Curze and Angron.  Our father engineered us to attain a level of self-knowledge few mortals could comprehend, and yet there are differences as can be seen, should you ever regard them with sight such as we use now.  I have seen my brother Mortarion as he appears beneath his shroud and breathing apparatus, the Khan and his meticulously crafted self-image, and even Horus, every bit as strong and charismatic as the one you have seen in the flesh."  Magnus' smile is more genuine now.  
"I doubt," Aelius laughs, "that they will be so solicitous to allow me to do so," She lifts a hand to brush back her hair — a completely unnecessary gesture by all standards but one, and it soothes Aelius, so it seems it might succeed in that dimension.   
The Primarch lifts his hand and from the ground sprouts a sheet of mirrored glass, rising forth so that Aelius might look upon herself.  "Though you may believe there may be no place for a sister amongst the Astartes, Aelius," he says gently, "where space marines go, so even do the masses of humanity, and your self-image is remarkably healthy."

"What does Horus look like, when you look upon him?" she asks, softly.  
Magnus considers his answer, leaning forward slightly to rest his arms on his knees and lace his fingers.  "It is like looking upon a man made at once of stone and light," he replies.  "He wears that armor which he so favors, but there is…more.  To him," Magnus says, unlacing his fingers long enough to gesture with one hand.  "Like you could strike at him with an entire mountain and it would shatter upon him, and with but a look he could turn the armies of a foe to his cause."  Magnus smiles thinly.  "He is nothing if not confident in himself, Horus."

Aelius sighs softly, her plump lips turning upward in a smile at the image, and it seems that without trying Magnus has pulled another secret writhing from the dark. It lasts for all of a moment before she sobers again. "So now you have seen it," she says, gesturing to her body. "But I know not how to proceed from here."  
The smile slowly vanishes as sobriety reasserts itself on the Primarch's face.  "I would ask you to think on all that I have said tonight, Aelius," he replies.  "Remember first that though in the strictest sense you may be an anomaly, such things are natural and indeed crucial to humanity's survival.  You are no less worthy of the title 'Astartes' than any other Luna Wolf."  He pauses briefly.

Aelius smiles slightly as the Primarch pontificates. He doesn't give voice to his protests, but in this place it's not hard for the Crimson King to ascertain what goes through her mind: how might one convince her brothers of this fact? Still, it puts her to her ease to hear it all the same.

"Remember the tarot," he continues.  "I did not trick you, Aelius, for the sake of laughing at you.  Far from it, for it serves as a reminder that though we may think ourselves alone in our particular struggle, going on around us are an infinite number of similar quiet conflicts.  This does not diminish the importance of your own," the Primarch notes, lifting a finger.  "I am not telling you to 'get over it,' or any such thing.  But it is important to place that struggle in context.  There are other members of the Legiones Astartes that have wrestled mightily with the question of their own being, though I shall say no more of that lest I break confidence with any of them."

He sits up once more, gesturing again towards the gate.  "And that is why I had you walk with me.  This night you have caught a brief glimpse of the monstrous reality of humanity, real as flesh and solid as thought.  And so my word to you, Drausus Aelius, is as follows: never recriminate yourself for the nature of your being.  Embrace it, accept it, understand it.  And even if you choose never to show it to your brothers, neither should you hide it from yourself."

The Primarch reaches out a hand, moving slowly, and extends his forefinger to gently rest his fingertip just above Aelius' heart.  "Truth," he says gently, "begins here, Aelius, and here I speak to you not as Primarch to Astartes, but as one seeker of knowledge to another.  Look within, and you will find no challenge so daring as to overcome you."

In the world of flesh, Aelius' hands grasp the Primarch's own more tightly for a moment. There's an almost palpable sense of relief at his last few pronouncements, and she lifts a hand to cover his own as he touches her chest. "You have given me much to consider," she says softly. "I am … grateful for your understanding."  
"I know," Magnus replies with the twist of a wry smile.  "At a moment such as this it is easy to see how many Astartes fall into the trap of preferring the simple life of a warrior, is it not?"  He twists his own hand to capture hers, enfolding her fingers in a warm, encompassing grip.  
She laughs, softly, lacing her fingers with Magnus' own. "It is tempting," she admits with a sly smile. "However, I doubt if it would be my lot any more than it would be yours," she says, shaking her head, those dark locks cascading around her as she does.  
"Good," Magnus says, as if his pronouncement on the matter is final.  "You have too fine a mind to be wasted in such fashion, Aelius."  As the Astartes smiles Magnus tilts his head slightly to one side, reaching out with his free hand to touch her at one side of her chin with a fingertip.  "Even like this your resemblance to him is uncanny," he notes.  "You Luna Wolves have a term for that recurrence, don't you?  A son — daughter, as it may be — of Horus."  
She lifts her chin in response, almost feline in her mien as she does so, and looks pleased by his pronouncement. "Yes," Aelius admits. "There have been no daughters of Horus that I've had cause to know," she admits with a sly smile.  
For some reason the comment seems to amuse the Primarch, and Magnus' laughter is full and rich.  "Nor have I, until this night," he agrees.  His gaze lingers strangely for a moment and he lifts his hand to tap at the Astartes' cheek.  "That is an interesting choice of marking," he says.  "Are you aware of its nature?"  
Her eyes narrow slightly, though it's not quite a flinch at his touch as those fingers trace the whorls of black ink. "It's common in the undermine where I was born," she admits. "Because of Horus' presence there. But I was never told its portents."

Magnus smiles.  "In ancient Gyptus," he says, "it was known as the eye of Wadjet, or," he pauses, "of Horus.  In their mythology the god Horus fought his brother Set, and though he was the victor, during the battle Seth gouged out his eye.  Though it was later healed, the symbol of the eye became associated with sacrifice and protection.”

Aelius lofts a brow slightly. She can't help the smile that grips her features. "But our Horus still has both eyes," she protests good-naturedly.

"Perhaps our Horus is a greater warrior than the ancient Gyptus could imagine," Magnus replies, still smiling. “There is much more, of course, but that is the essence of it.  Perhaps before you leave Prospero you will find the opportunity to pursue the matter further."  
"It may be I will do some reading before I leave Tizca," the Librarian continues to tease. "You have piqued an interest in me, not for the first time tonight."  
With a tilt of his head he lifts a brow and questions, "And what else?"  
"You cannot truly believe this is the first thing of interest you have said this evening. Even modesty has its limit."  
"I had wondered if you'd meant something specific," he says.  
"You are a fascinating creature," she admits, glancing away a moment. "It is little wonder you have held yourself aloof from us as you did, for we should all be jealous of your time."  
"Ah, he replies, smiling a touch guiltily.  "It is true.  I did not wish to disrupt the early days of the process, for they are of paramount importance.  Far better for me to save my interventions for the moment when it is needed, for those that have earned it."

"And you think, then, that I have earned your tutelage?" Aelius hedges, those tawny eyes finding the cyclops' gaze once more. Her teeth capture the plush swell of her lower lip, and she reaches out once more to brush her hand against the Primarch's own.

"I would not have visited you tonight if I did not, Aelius," Magnus says.  As the legionnaire's hand — smaller than his own, yet still larger than any mortal's — brushes against his own he smiles once more, lifting it to Aelius' chin, the luminescent fingers warm against her face.  
"I wonder, then," the Librarian says, her tone growing conspiratorial as his fingers brush her cheek. "What other favors might I earn from you?" she muses, taking a step toward the massive, seated figure of the Primarch opposite.

There is a brief silence that passes between them, and then a momentary wave of emotion so quick it is gone almost before Aelius can perceive it — a taste of Magnus' love for his brother, the esteem in which he holds Horus, and the Crimson King's determination to stand by him as a brother should without seeking to undercut the Emperor's brightest son. She seems almost taken aback by that wave of emotion, and it puts her onto her back foot for a second. Then she seems to process through it, and she nods, drawing in again.

"You've but to ask, Aelius," he murmurs softly.

She doesn't ask, not aloud, only reaches for the Crimson King's hands and kisses the back of his knuckles, letting her breath feather over that luminous skin.

As her lips leave his knuckles he stretches out his fingers against the bottom of her chin, gently lifting her face as he leans in to capture the female legionnaire's lips against his own, warm like the rest of him and soft against her mouth as his fingers curl to draw her in against him.

She rises to his kiss, then, her hands sliding down over his wrists and forearms, mouth yielding against his own. Her silken hair brushes the backs of those urgent fingers, and she steps closer to the plinth to bask in his radiance, inhaling deeply as if to take the scent of him. The faint scent of oils and Tizcan spices is prevalent upon the Primarch's flesh, the heat of him washing over her in like fashion as he draws her in against him, shifting slightly as she moves close enough to stand between his legs.  
His free hand lifts to pass over those soft tresses, sliding down over her neck and shoulders. The thin linen of her garb leaves little to imagination as his hands roam her figure — there's the slight softness of her femininity laid over a core of strong muscle like a veil. Her own hands come to cup the Crimson King's face as their kisses continue unabated, and she lifts a hand to brush back his scarlet locks. Magnus' hair is not so soft as Aelius' own, its texture more pronounced as her hand slides against the thick mane.  As the moments pass and their kiss stretches on the Primarch's hand descends, tracing the shape of her body beneath her illusory garb.  The one at her chin shifts only so much as to slide itself down to the side of her neck, holding the woman close to him.

Her arms slink around his neck then, her hands caressing his bare nape. She rises to his touch, back arching just slightly under the warmth of his hands, and the lady legionary lets her body rest flush against the Crimson King's own. "None can see us?" she asks breathlessly against his mouth, teasing out his confirmation.

"None," he assures her.  His chest is solid as she presses up against him, warmth rushing through her like a living flame.  Aelius quickly finds out what it feels like to be a woman, clutched to the breast of a man, and against her belly is a growing point of firmness, unmistakable as the pair of them press together.  
She huffs out a shaking little breath, though she does not tremble at his touch, and her hands skim down toward the waist of his tunic, her palms brushing at his sides. "Good," Aelius says a moment later, and lets her teeth find the swell of one scarlet lip. She makes then to strip him, though it's not easy with them pressed together as they are.  
He slowly pulls his hands from her to undo his belt, lifting himself and shifting to lift his tunic and revealing the form beneath, inhumanly broad and muscular, the coppery skin all but untouched by hair to leave it smooth but for the definition of the Primarch's torso. Her hands caress the newly exposed flesh, learning the shape and heat of him by touch even as those fierce kisses continue unabated, as if they both seek to devour the other. But for his sandals the only scrap of cloth left to him is a twist of linen that covers his loins.  
As Magnus releases his tunic he stretches out his hands once more to Aelius' body, taking hold of her own garb and beginning to smoothly work it from her, though it necessitates the breaking of their kiss. Her tawny eyes sweep over his frame, noting the perfection of each line. Beneath her linen garb, Aelius is nude. Her body is hairless, and her weighty breasts are tipped by nipples already begun to pucker in her arousal.

Magnus wastes little time in setting aside her garb before reaching out to her once more, one large hand molding itself to her breast as the other slips around her waist.  He kisses it once more, and the growing fervor of their coupling is evident as he presses down against her. She’s half climbed-into his lap already when with a sudden motion he draws her up, his strength easily hoisting the legionnaire's body, pressing her to him more tightly than ever.

She presses against the vast expanse of his bare chest, crushing her breasts against his flesh and that eager hand, a little moan of pleasure escaping her mouth into his. Eventually one of her hands finds his waist once more, and she makes to unwind that loincloth from about him.  
He lifts slightly to permit her to do so, groaning softly with relief once it's gone.  The passion of the moment has had its effect on the Primarch of the Thousand Sons, and it is impossible to ignore.  Amongst the largest of his brethren, the anatomy of the Crimson King is to scale, a thick shaft that promises to test even the legionnaire's body, and Aelius is well warned of this as the pair of them shift against one another, causing it to grind against her.  
Another burbling moan escapes her throat, her head lolling back as that thick, rigid shaft grinds against her. She lifts herself just slightly, and finds him instead pressed against the swell of her stomach.  
"Magnus," she whimpers softly at the feeling, seizing a fistful of hair as her muscles clench in delicious anticipation.

He reaches out to set both hands to her hips, grinding her against him as he softly growls "Aelius," in reply.

She reaches down to take hold of him, breaking from their kiss to look down at their bodies, and lets out a soft, primal growl, drinking in the sight of him, of the very size of him. Aelius lifts herself just slightly from his lap, teasing the velvety hardness of his helm against her slit, drenching him in honey and grinding her clit against his member. "You seem a man of many admirers," she purrs against his throat.

"I am," he replies, shifting his hips slowly so that she can feel the way his shift grinds against her clutching hand as well as the folds of her sex, the girth of it pulsing rapidly with multiple heartbeats.

"But none like me," Aelius rejoins, looking up at him with lidded eyes, nostrils flaring as she takes the scent of his musk in animalistic fashion. She reaches down with her other hand to spread the folds of her labia, still grinding against him shallowly as though she still flirts with the idea of taking him.  
He meets her lidded gaze with his own smoldering one, as if sizing her up for a moment or perhaps simply to make her wait for it before he nods.  "None," he finally confirms, lifting his chin as she teases him relentlessly.  
"Nor shall you find my equal again, Magnus the Red," she murmurs with her last breath, then mutes herself upon the column of his neck, kissing and licking at coppery flesh, her lips trailing over the swell of his chest as at last she presses against him purposefully.  
"I believe you," he replies, his voice guileless arching to let her feast upon him, a rumble passing through his chest as she begins to descend upon him, that sweet embrace of flesh tight around the heat of his cock. Almost immediately, she gasps, finding herself spread wide around his immensity, but the pain is as sweet to her as anything else of the night. His hands tighten upon her and having permitted the legionnaire her fun, he begins to pull her further down atop his length, spearing deeply into her and delivering unto her a heady dose of that mixture of pain and pleasure she so craves.  
She seems satisfied by this response, her teeth raking his unblemished flesh, the muscles of her back knot beneath his hands as he urges her downward, and even Drausus Aelius struggles to take the fullness of the Primarch, and in spite of her intent she whimpers hotly. A moment's reflection on the sound renders her unabashed, the Librarian crying out sharply.  
With a sudden surge the red-skinned Primarch leans forward, lifting one hand from the legionnaire's hips to cup the nape of her neck as he arches her backwards to match him.  Then he begins to slowly bounce her atop his length, and that heavy mane of crimson hair falls against her body in waves as the Primarch moves to return her previous attentions to his throat. She does not surrender to him easily, her hips rolling in his grasp, jerking her body erratically against his cock until his mouth closes upon alabaster flesh. His breath is hot as it washes over her.

Still, for all her strength, the Astartes is manipulated like a toy, and she finds herself bowed backward as the Crimson King takes his pleasure from her. The blunted head of that immense member raking her frontal walls is an intense experience even for one of Aelius' size.

Her fingernails scrabble against his hide, and she writhes in his grasp as if she might somehow reassert herself. Far from being deterred by the sensation of her nails against his flesh it seems to spur him on, his pace growing more insistent. Aelius growls, a primal animal noise as he continues to fuck her with abandon and as she bounces in his lap he ducks his head to capture one nipple, pulling at it with his lips and flicking his tongue against the hardened tip. Her legs clamp about his waist as the Primarch's tongue laves over her puckered nipple, and she tugs on the hank of hair knotted in her fist with a groan. His fingers lift from the nape of her neck to slide into that dark mane, tightening and repaying her little yanks with his own.

She seems on the verge of further speech when he kisses her, Magnus lifting Aelius' head once more to kiss her lips, flattening them against his own. His tongue works at her lips and slides just enough into her mouth for her to feel it without growing overwhelming.  All throughout he continues to pound her without pause, an unrelenting rhythm that would see a lesser female broken, and threatens to leave even an Astartes bruised and sore. Her muscles clench around him, that already tight channel gripping at him with still more intensity. She breaks away from his kiss to gasp his name.

"Come for me, O King," she implores him in that same purring tone, her tawny eyes finding his own, though eyelids flutter closed over them.  
"With you, daughter of Horus," he replies, his voice a breathless growl as he arches, pulling her down atop him and pinning her there as searing heat floods into her nethers. Again there's that almost-painful clutch of her cunt against his shaft, the pressure coming in waves even as he jerks within her. Some few drops spill from the tight seal of their bodies, the scent of it powerful enough even to cut through that of sweat and oils.  Magnus' own eye flutters wildly for a long moment, the crimson Primarch lifting his chin as he exhales, his nails felt briefly against Aelius' flesh as he tightens his grip reflexively in the aftermath of their joint climax. The legionary shudders, and she slackens in his grasp, urging him back toward a more traditional position that she might rest her cheek against the heated flesh of his chest.

Magnus permits her to linger there for long moments afterwards, one strong arm securely wrapped around her waist while his hand strokes at that lustrous ebon hair.  "I well believe you, Aelius," he softly murmurs once more.

She laughs, softly, letting the gesture shake her body against his own. "I should hope that you do. But it hardly needs to be said that I will remember this night always."  
Magnus smiles, matching Aelius' soft laughter.  "I would certainly hope so," he agrees with good humor.  A final stroke of Aelius' hair and one long, tight squeeze that strains the Astartes' rib plate, and he speaks once more.  "As much as I would prefer to linger here, Aelius, I cannot," he says gently.  
"Other wayward students to shepherd?" Aelius speculates. "I should hope that they do not all receive such treatment as I."  
Magnus laughs spontaneously, his chest shaking against Aelius' own.  "As well as other duties," he replies.  "But no, they shall not, I assure you," he says.  "You are, as you say, without equal, Aelius."  
"I must thank you again. It is well to know that there is one who would accept me for what I am," Aelius says softly. "How does one … awake from this state?" he wonders softly.  
"I shall take you through it," Magnus reassures the legionnaire, reaching out to take her hands once more between his own in mimicry of their gesture at the beginning of the dreamwalk.

There is a sensation like the tugging of an undercurrent as the imagery of Tizca's statuary park fades away, slowly replaced by that of Aelius' guest quarters with Magnus still seated before the Astartes, his eye yet closed. She lets herself be swept along in the Crimson King's wake, back to her own quarters, and awakes to find herself once more in a male body, the slightest sheen of sweat upon her pale skin. Aelius looks down at the massive hands she still holds, and again she dips her head, kissing the backs of the Primarch’s fingers.

Magnus’ single eye slowly opens and he offers the Luna Wolf a nod, squeezing … his?  _her_  hands between his own. Drausus Aelius lets him go then, and Magnus makes as if to rise, but the Primarch seems to rethink the idea as he regards the legionnaire.  Then, with slow deliberation the Crimson King reaches out, his large hands cupping the back of Aelius' head as he leans towards the Luna Wolf to place a kiss at her lips. Aelius' kiss is gentle, not at all the fevered, primal thing they'd shared only moments before, and the Librarian is lax and content in her mentor's arms. Magnus there a moment before bending Aelius' head down so that he may kiss her brow, holding Aelius to him for a long moment.  It is then, and only then that the Primarch of the Thousand Sons rises to depart. As Magnus stands, so too does the legionary, clasping one fist to her breast.

"Until we next cross paths, Aelius," he says softly, one hand brushing against the legionnaire's shoulder before the contact between them is finally broken.

"Until then," Aelius replies softly, tawny eyes flicking toward that hand as it brushes the breadth of one shoulder.

And then, in an instant, the Crimson King is gone, and Drausus Aelius is left alone to contemplate her reveries.


End file.
